I hear wet, sloppy kisses. Grunting and chuckling and oof-ing. Her muppet boyfriend kisses like a fecking greyhound by the sound of it. So. Much. Tongue. But she likes it. I know, because she whimpers like she did when I did things to her.

He moans.

She sighs.

He groans.

She giggles.

My chewed-up nails are digging into the flesh inside my palms. A nice, sane way to prevent myself from strangling both of them.

“What about our host?” Shiny Boyfriend murmurs.

His host is about to pull a gun from under his wooden floor and blow his fecking head off. The only hole in that plan is that I don’t own a gun. And the floor is carpeted. Never mind. This plan clearly cannot work.

“Asleep, probably. His door is closed,” she replies.

I listen as they make their way to their room, which I never bothered showing them, bumping into every single object on their way. They sound more sauced than an enchilada. Their door clicks shut, but there’s only one, thin wall separating us, and you can hear everything through it.

The kissing stops, but something far worse starts. She’s moaning now, and I can tell she’s not faking it, because I know what she sounds like when she comes.

“Love,” Shiny Boyfriend rasps.

I hear a zipper rolling down. I dig my fingers into my skin until I draw blood. It feels like every inch of my body is wrapped in thorns.

“Bite down on your dress. He’s going to hear us.”

He’s already hearing you, you oxygen-wasting pillock.

I jump to my feet like the bed is on fire, throw my door open, and take the two steps to their door. Rather than knock, like a normal human being, I push it open like the manner-less cunt Aurora is starting to become familiar with.

I fold my arms over my chest at the door, watching them lazily. Aurora is plastered against the wall, and Shiny Boyfriend is on his knees, carpet-munching. She is naked save for a black lace bra, and he is licking the outline of her bare pussy—perfectly, beautifully shaved—when I clear my throat and make myself comfortable against the doorframe. They both crack their eyes open.

Aurora lets out a yelp, but he remains angled right next to her pussy, protecting her modesty.

Don’t bother, mate. I’ve seen it so close I can recognize it in a lineup.

“She likes it when you suck her clit and use your fingers at the same time.” I shove my fists into my pockets, yawning the sleep away. “But quite partial to clit-pinching. Go figure.”

Rather than appreciating my helpful pointers, Aurora leans down, picks up one of her shoes, and hurls it in my direction with a Celtic roar. I dodge it, yawning again for good measure. I hope she takes photos better than she aims, or Ryner is going to have a problem.

“Had a good night?” I look around.

Really, I should do something with this room. Maybe burn it to the ground so they won’t have any privacy.

“Get the hell out!” she screams.

She is so red, her white scar shines bright like the moon. Her spineless boyfriend scurries up, hands her a dress, and rearranges his boner in his trousers.

“I think you should go.” The genius advances toward me, but I can tell he’s the type to file a lawsuit before he throws a punch.

“Aurora.” I ignore him, staring at her with icy boredom.

She puts her black dress on quickly, mumbling something under a breath, doubtful words of praise as to my hospitality thus far.

“I am ready.”

“Ready for what? The hard facts of life? Here’s one: you’re an asshole, Mal. Here’s another: there’s not one part of you I still even remotely like.”

My chest constricts, but it’s probably because I haven’t had a drink since New York. And before New York, in months. Years. I’ve cut back on the alcohol significantly since The Night That Ruined Everything. I didn’t want to become Aurora’s father, Glen.

“To work.” I pick up her shoe and toss it into her hands. She catches it, her brows diving in confusion.

“Mal, it’s midnight.”

“She reads the clock; you read social situations.” I give Shiny Boyfriend an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Together, you’re a rare force of intelligence and capability.”

“I’m serious.” She scowls.

“Inspiration hits me at weird hours.” I shrug.

“Can it hit you in the face into another fit of sleep? At least until tomorrow morning?” she inquires, her cheeks pink.

She’s putting her shoes on, though, like I knew she would. That’s the thing about true artists, they cannot deny their art, even—and especially—when they’re hurting.

Shiny Boyfriend glances between us, obviously unfamiliar with the full rainbow of human emotions. It looks like this is the first time he’s witnessing a fight. He is a bit taller than me and definitely has that Brad Pitt circa 1990, this-is-your-life-and-it’s-ending-one-minute-at-a-time look down to a T. Unlike Tyler Durden, though, I can search with a magnifying glass and still won’t be able to find one alpha bone in his body. There are likely more pheromones in a tutu.